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THE HERMITAGE AND 
LATER POEMS 



BY 



EDWARD ROWLAND SILL 



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NOV 4 188W 

BOSTON AND NEW YORI 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 



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M DCCC LXXXIX 






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Copyright, 1867, 
By E. R. SILL. 

Copyright, 1S89, 
By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 

All rights reserved. 



The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass. , U. S. A. 
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company. 



THE LETTER. 

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL, DIED FEBRUARY 
27, 1887. 

I held his letter in my hand, 

And even while I read 
The lightning flashed across the land 

The word that he was dead. 

How strange it seemed! His living voice 

Was speaking from the page 
Those courteous phrases, tersely choice, 

Light-hearted, witty, sage. 

I wondered what it was that died! 

The man himself was here, 
His 7nodesty, his scholar's pride, 

His soul serene and clear. 

These neither death nor time shall dim, 
Still this sad thing must be — 

Henceforth I may not speak to him, 
Though he can speak to me! 

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 



CONTENTS 

Page 

The Hermitage 7 

Starlight 70 

A Dead Bird in Winter 73 

Spring Twilight 76 

Evening 78 

Eastern Winter 81 

A Prayer 84 

The Polar Sea 86 

The Future 89 

The North Wind 91 

California Winter 95 

The Lover's Song 99 

Tropical Morning at Sea 100 

A Foolish Wish 103 

Every-day Life 106 

Before Sunrise in Winter 107 

Sibylline Bartering 108 




THE HERMITAGE. 1 

i. 

LIFE, — a common, cleanly, 

quiet life, 
Full of good citizenship and re- 
pute, 

New, but with promise of prosperity, — 

A well - bred, fair, young - gentlemanly 
life, — 

What business had a girl to bring her 
eyes, 

And her blonde hair, and her clear, ring- 
ing voice, 

And break up life, as a bell breaks a 
dream ? 

Had Love Christ's wrath, and did this 
life sell doves 

1 California, Bay of San Francisco, 1886. 



8 The Hermitage 

In the world's temple, that Love scourged 
it forth 

Beyond the gates ? Within, the worship- 
ers, — 

Without, the waste, and the hill-country, 
where 

The life, with smarting shoulders and 
stung heart, 

Unknowing that the hand which scourged 
could heal, 

Drave forth, blind, cursing, in despair to 
die, 

Or work its own salvation out in fear. 



Old World — - old, foolish, wicked World 

— farewell ! 
Since the Time-angel left my soul with 

thee, 
Thou hast been a hard step-mother unto 

me. 
Now I at last rebel 
Against thy stony eyes and cruel hands. 



The Hermitage g 

I will go seek in far-off lands 

Some quiet corner, where my years shall 

be 
Still as the shadow of a brooding bird 
That stirs but with her heart-beats. Far, 

unheard 
May wrangle on the noisy human host, 
While I will face my Life, that silent 

ghost, 
And force it speak what it would have 

with me. 

Not of the fair young Earth, 
The snow-crowned, sunny-belted globe ; 
Not of its skies, nor Twilight's purple 

robe, 
Nor pearly dawn ; not of the flowers' 

birth, 
And Autumn's forest - funerals ; not of 

storms, 
And quiet seas, and clouds' incessant 

forms ; 
Not of the sanctuary of the night, 



io The Hermitage 

With its solemnities, nor any sight 
And pleasant sound of all the friendly- 
day : 
But I am tired of what we call our lives ; 
Tired of the endless humming in the 

hives, — 
Sick of the bitter honey that we eat, 
And sick of cursing all the shallow 
cheat. 

Let me arise, and away 
To the land that guards the dying day, 
Whose burning tear, the evening-star, 
Drops silently to the wave afar ; 
The land where summers never cease 
Their sunny psalm of light and peace. 
Whose moonlight, poured for years un- 
told, 
Has drifted down in dust of gold ; 
Whose morning splendors, fallen in show- 
ers, 
Leave ceaseless sunrise in the flowers. 



The Hermitage n 

There I will choose some eyrie in the 
hills, 
Where I may build, like a lonely bird, 
And catch the whispered music heard 
Out of the noise of human ills. 



So, I am here at last ; 
A purer world, whose feet the old, salt 

Past 
Washes against, and leaves it fresh and 

free 
As a new island risen from the sea. 

Three dreamy weeks we lay on Ocean's 

breast, 
Rocked asleep, by gentle winds caressed, 
Or crooned with wild wave-lullabies to 

rest. 
A memory of foam and glassy spray ; 
Wave chasing wave, like young sea-beasts 

at play ; 
Stretches of misty silver 'neath the moon, 



12 The Hermitage 

And night-airs murmuring many a quiet 
tune. 

Three long, delicious weeks' monotony 

Of sky, and stars, and sea, 

Broken midway by one day's tropic 
scene 

Of giant plants, tangles of luminous 
green, 

With fiery flowers and purple fruits be- 
tween. 



I have found a spot for my hermit- 
age, — 

No dank and sunless cave, — 

I come not for a dungeon, nor a cage, — 

Not to be Nature's slave, 

But, as a weary child, 

Unto the mother's faithful arms T flee, 

And seek the sunniest footstool at her 
knee, 

Where I may sit beneath caresses mild, 

And hear the sweet old songs that she 
will sing to me. 



The Hermitage 13 

'T is a grassy mountain-nook, 

In a gorge, whose foaming brook 

Tumbles through from the heights above, 

Merrily leaping to the light 

From the pine-wood's haunted gloom, — 

As a romping child, 

Affrighted, from a sombre room 

Leaps to the sunshine, laughing with de- 
light: 

Be this my home, by man's tread unde- 
filed. 

Here sounds no voice but of the mourn- 
ing dove, 

Nor harsher footsteps on the sands ap- 
pear 

Than the sharp, slender hoof-marks of 
the deer, 

Or where the quail has left a zigzag row 

Of lightly printed stars her track to show. 

Above me frowns a front of rocky wall, 
Deep cloven into ruined pillars tall 
And sculptures strange ; bald to its dizzy 
edge, 



14 The Hermitage 

Save where, in some deep crevice of a 

ledge 
Buttressed by its black shadow hung 

below, 
A solitary pine has cleft the rock, — 
Straight as an arrow, feathered to the tip, 
As if a shaft from the moon-huntress' bow 
Had struck and grazed the cliff's defiant 

lip, 
And stood, still stiffly quivering with the 

shock. 

Beyond the gorge a slope runs half-way 
up, 
With hollow curve as for a giant's cup, 
Brimming with blue pine-shadows : then 

in air 
The gray rock rises bare, 
Its front deep-fluted by the sculptor- 
storms 
In moulded columns, rounded forms, 
As if great organ-pipes were chiseled 
there, 



The Hermitage 15 

Whose anthems are the torrent's roar 

below, 
And chanting winds that through the 

pine-tops go. 
Here bursts of requiem music sink and 

rise, 
When the full moonlight, slowly streaming, 

lies 
Like panes of gold on some cathedral 

pave, 
While floating mists their silver incense 

wave, 
And from on high, through fleecy win- 
dow-bars, 
Gaze down the saintly faces of the stars. 

Against the huge trunk of a storm- 
snapped tree, 

(Whose hollow, ready-hewn by long de- 
cay, 

Above, a chimney, lined with slate and 
clay, 

Below, a broad arched fireplace makes 
for me,) 



1 6 The Hermitage 

I 've built of saplings and long limbs a 

hut. 
The roof with lacing boughs is tightly 

shut, 
Thatched with thick-spreading palms of 

pine, 
And tangled over by a wandering vine, 
Uprooted from the woods close by, 
Whose clasping tendrils climb and twine, 
Waving their little hands on high, 
As if they loved to deck this nest of mine. 
Within, by smooth white stones from the 

brook's beach 
My rooms are separated, each from each. 
On yonder island-rock my table 's spread, 
Brook-ringed, that no stray, fasting ant 

may come 
To make himself with my wild fare at 

home. 

Here will I live, and here my life shall 
be 
Serene, still, rooted steadfastly, 



The Hermitage ij 

Yet pointing skyward, and its motions 

keep 
A rhythmic balance, as that cedar tall, 
Whose straight shaft rises from the chasm 

there, 
Through the blue, hollow air, 
And, measuring the dizzy deep, 
Leans its long shadow on the rock's gray 

wall. 



Through the sharp gap of the gorge 

below, 
From my mountains' feet the gaze may go 
Over a stretch of fields, broad-sunned, 
Then glance beyond, 
Across the beautiful bay, 
To that dim ridge, a score of miles away, 
Lifting its clear-cut outline high, 
Azure with distance on the azure sky, 
Whose flocks of white clouds brooding on 

its crests 
Have winged from ocean to their piny 

nests. 



j 8 The Hermitage 

Beyond the bright blue water's further 
rim, 

Where waves seem ripples on its far-off 
brim, 

The rich young city lies, 

Diminished to an ant-hill's size. 

I trace its steep streets, ribbing all the hill 

Like narrow bands of steel, 

Binding the city on the shifting sand : 

Thick-pressed between them stand 

Broad piles of buildings, pricked through 
here and there 

By a sharp steeple ; and above, the air 

Murky with smoke and dust, that seem to 
show 

The bright sky saddened by the sin be- 
low. 



The voice of my wild brook is marvel- 
ous ; 
Leaning above it from a jutting rock 
To watch the image of my face, that forms 



The Hermitage 19 

And breaks, and forms again (as the 

image of God 
Is broken and re-gathered in a soul), 
I listen to the chords that sink and swell 
From many a little fall and babbling run. 
That hollow gurgle is the deepest bass ; 
Over the pebbles gush contralto tones, 
While shriller trebles tinkle merrily, 
Running, like some enchanted - fingered 

flute, 
Endless chromatics. 

Now it is the hum 
And roar of distant streets; the rush of 

winds 
Through far-off forests : now the noise of 

rain 
Drumming the roof; the hiss of ocean- 
foam : 
Now the swift ripple of piano-keys 
In mad mazurkas, danced by laughing 
girls. 

So, night and day, the hurrying brook 
goes on ; 



20 The Hermitage 

Sometimes in noisy glee, sometimes far 

down, 
Silent along the bottom of the gorge, 
Like a deep passion hidden in the soul, 
That chafes in secret hunger for its sea : 
Yet not so still but that heaven finds its 

course ; 
And not so hid but that the yearning 

night 
Broods over it, and feeds it with her stars. 



When earth has Eden spots like this for 

man, 
Why will he drag his life where lashing 

storms 
Whip him indoors, the petulant weather's 

slave ? 
There he is but a helpless, naked snail, 
Except he wear his house close at his 

back. 
Here the wide air builds him his palace 

walls, — 



The Hermitage 21 

Some little corner of it roofed, for sleep ; 
Or he can lie all night, bare to the sky, 
And feel updrawn against the breast of 

heaven, 
Letting his thoughts stretch out among 

the stars, 
As the antennae of an insect grope 
Blindly for food, or as the ivy's shoots 
Clamber from cope and tower to find the 

light, 
And drink the electric pulses of the sun. 

As from that sun we draw the coarser 

fire 
That swells the veins, and builds the brain 

and bone, 
So from each star a finer influence streams, 
Kindling within the mortal chrysalis 
The first faint thrills of its new life to 

come. 

Here is no niggard gap of sky above, 
With murk and mist below, but all sides 
clear, — 



22 The Hermitage 

Not an inch bated from the full- swung 

dome ; 
Each constellation to the horizon's rim 
Keen-glittering, as if one only need 
Walk to the edge there, spread his wings, 

and float, 
The dark earth spurned behind, into the 

blue. 



I love thee, thou brown, homely, dear 

old Earth ! 
Those fairer planets whither fate may 

lead, 
Whatever marvel be their bulk or speed, 
Ringed with what splendor, belted round 

with fire, 
In glory of perpetual moons arrayed, 
Can ne'er give back the glow and fresh 

desire 
Of youth in that old home where man had 

birth, 
Whose paths he trod through wholesome 

light and shade. 



The Hermitage 23 

Out of their silver radiance to thy dim 

And clouded orb his eye will turn, 

As an old man looks back to where he 

played 
About his father's hearth, and finds for 

him 
No splendor like the fires which there did 

burn. 

See : I am come to live alone with thee. 
Thou hast had many a one, grown old and 

worn, 
Come to thee weary and forlorn, 
Bent with the weight of human vanity. 
But I come with my life almost untried, 
In thy perpetual presence to abide. 
Teach me thy wisdom ; let me learn the 

flowers, 
And know the rocks and trees, 
And touch the springs of all thy hidden 

powers. 
Let the still gloom of thy rock-fastnesses 
Fall deep upon my spirit, till the voice 



24 The Hermitage 

Of brooks become familiar, and my heart 

rejoice 
With joy of birds and winds ; and all the 

hours, 
Unmaddened by the babble of vain men, 
Bring thy most inner converse to my ken. 
So shall it be, that, when I stand 
On that next planet's ruddy-shimmering 

strand, 
I shall not seem a pert and forward child 
Seeking to dabble in abstruser lore 
With alphabet unlearned, who in disgrace 
Returns, upon his primer yet to pore — 
But those examiners, all wise and mild, 
Shall gently lead me to my place, 
As one that faithfully did trace 
These simpler earthly records o'er and 

o'er. 



Beckoned at sunrise by the surf's white 
hand, 
I have strayed down to sit upon the 
beach, 



The Hermitage 25 

And hear the oratorio of the Sea. 

On this steep, crumbling bank, where the 
high tides 

Have crunched the earth away, a crooked 
oak — 

A hunch -backed dwarf, whose limbs, 
cramped down by gales, 

Have twisted stiffening back upon them- 
selves — 

Spreads me a little arbor from the sun. 

On the brown, shining beach, all ripple- 
carved, 
Gleams now and then a pool ; so smooth 

and clear, 
That, though I cannot see the plover 

there 
Pacing its farther edge (so much he looks 
The color of the sand), yet I can trace 
His image hanging in the glassy brine — 
Slim legs and rapier-beak — like silver- 
plate 
With such a pictured bird clean-etched 
upon it. 



26 The Hermitage 

Beyond, long curves of little shallow 

waves 
Creep, tremulous with ripples, to the 

shore, 
Till the whole bay seems slowly sliding in, 
With edge of snow that melts against the 

sand. 

Above its twinkling blue, where cease- 
lessly 

The white curve of a slender arm of foam 

Is reached along the water, and with- 
drawn, 

A flock of sea-birds darken into specks ; 

Then whiten, as they wheel with sunlit 
wings, 

Winking and wavering against the sky. 

The earth for form, the sea for coloring, 
And overhead, fair daughters of the two, 
The clouds, whose curves were moulded 

on the hills, 
Whose tints of pearl and foam the ocean 

gave. 



The Hermitage 27 

O Sea, thou art all-beautiful, but dumb ! 
Thou hast no utterance articulate 
For human ears ; only a restless moan 
Of barren tides, that loathe the living 

earth 
As alien, striving towards the barren 

moon. 
Thou art no longer infinite to man : 
Has he not touched thy boundary-shores, 

and now- 
Laid his electric fetters round thy feet ? 
Thy dumb moan saddens me ; let me go 

back 
And listen to the silence of the hills. 



At last I live alone : 
No human judgment-seats are here 
Thrust in between man and his Maker's 

throne, 
With praise to covet, or with frown to 

fear : 
No small, distorted judgments bless, or 

blame ; 



28 The Hermitage 

Only to Him I own 

The inward sense of worth, or flush of 
shame. 

God made the man alone ; 
And all that first grand morning walked 

he so. 
Then was he strong and wise, till at the 

noon, 
When tired with joyous wonder he lay 

prone 
For rest and sleep, God let him know 
The subtile sweetness that is bound in 

Two. 

Man rises best alone : 
Upward his thoughts stream, like the 

leaping flame, 
Whose base is tempest-blown ; 
Upward and skyward, since from thence 

they came, 
And thither they must flow. 
But when in twos we go, 



The Hermitage 29 

The lightnings of the brain weave to and 

fro, 
Level across the abyss that parts us all ; 
If upward, only slantwise, as we scale 
Slowly together that night-shrouded wall 
Which bounds our reason, lest our reason 

fail. 
If linked in threes, and fives, 
However heavenward the spirit strives, 
The lowest stature draws the highest 

down, — 
The king must keep the level of the 

clown. 
The grosser matter has the greater power 
In all attraction ; every hour 
We slide and slip to lower scales, 
Till weary aspiration fails, 
And that keen fire which might have 

pierced the skies, 
Is quenched and killed in one another's 

eyes. 



jo ' The Hermitage 

A child had blown a bubble fair 
That floated in the sunny air : 
A hundred rainbows danced and swung 
Upon its surface, as it hung 
In films of changing color rolled, 
Crimson, and amethyst, and gold, 
With faintest streaks of azure sheen, 
And curdling rivulets of green. 
" If so the surface shines," cried he, 
" What marvel must the centre be ! " 
He caught it — on his empty hands 
A drop of turbid water stands ! 

With men, to help the moments fly, 
I tossed the ball of talk on high, 
With glancing jest, and random stings, 
Grazing the crests of thoughts and things, 
In many a shifting ray of speech 
That shot swift sparkles, each to each. 
I thought, " Ah, could we pierce below 
To inner soul, what depths would show ! " 
In friendships many, loves a few, 
I pierced the inner depths, and knew 



The Hermitage 31 

'T was but the shell that splendor caught : 
Within, one sour and selfish thought. 

I found a grotto, hidden in the gorge, 
Paved by the brook in rare Mosaic work 
Of sand, and lucent depths, and shadow- 
streaks 
Veining the amber of the sun-dyed wave. 
Between two mossy masses of gray rock 
Lay a clear basin, which, with sun and 

shade 
Bewitched, a great transparent opal made, 
Over whose broken rims the water ran. 
Above each rocky side leaned waving 

trees 
Whose lace of branches wove a restless 

roof, 
Trailed over by green vines that sifted 

down 
A dust of sunshine through the chilly 
shade. 

Leaning against a trunk of oak, rock- 
wedged, 



$2 The Hermitage 

Whose writhen roots were clenched upon 

the stones, 
I was a Greek, and caught the sudden 

flash 
Of a scared Dryad's vanishing robe, and 

heard 
The laughter, half-suppressed, of hiding 

Fauns. 
Up the dark stairway of the tumbling 

stream 
The sun shot through, and struck each 

foamy fail 
Into a silvery veil of dazzling fire. 
Along its shady course, the tossing drops 
By some swift sunbeam ever caught, were 

lit 
To sparkling stars, that fell, and flashed, 

and fell, 
Incessantly rekindled. Bubble-troops 
Came dancing by, to break just at my 

feet \ 
Lo ! every bubble mirrored the whole 

scene — . 



The Hermitage 33 

The streak of blue between the roofing- 
boughs, 
And on it my own face in miniature 
Quaintly distorted, as if some small elf 
Peered up at me beneath his glassy dome. 



If men but knew the mazes of the brain 
And all its crowded pictures, they would 

need 
No Louvre or Vatican : behind our brows 
Intricate galleries are built, whose walls 
Are rich with all the splendors of a life. 
Each crimson leaf of every autumn walk, 
Dewdrops of childhood's mornings, every 

scene 
From any window where we 've chanced 

to stand, 
Forgotten sunsets, summer afternoons, 
Hang fresh in those immortal galleries. 
Few ever can unlock them, till great Death 
Unrolls our life-long memory as a scroll. 
One key is solitude, and silence one, 



34 The Hermitage 

And one a quiet mind, content to rest 
In God's sufficiency, and take His world, 
Not dabbling all the Master's work to 

death 
With our small interference. God is God. 

Yet we must give the children leave to 

use 
Our garden-tools, though they spoil tool 

and plant 
In learning. So the Master may not 

scorn 
Our awkwardness, as with these bungling 

hands 
We try to uproot the ill, and plant with 

good 
Life's barren soil : the child is learning 

use. 
Perhaps the angels even are forbid 
To laugh at us, or may not care to laugh, 
With kind eyes pitying our little hurts. 

'T is ludicrous that man should think he 
roams 



The Hermitage 35 

Freely at will a world planned for his use. 
Lo, what a mite he is ! Snatched hither 

and yon, 
Tossed round the sun, and in its orbit 

flashed 
Round other centres, orbits without end ; 
His bit of brain too small to even feel 
The spinning of the little hailstone, Earth. 
So his creeds glibly prate of choice and 

will, 
When his whole fate is an invisible speck 
Whirled through the orbits of Eternity. 



We think that we believe 
That human souls shall live, and live, 
When trees have rotted into mould, 
And all the rocks which these long hills 

enfold 
Have crumbled, and beneath new oceans 

lie. 
But why — ah, why — 
If puny man is not indeed to die, 



36 The Hermitage 

Watch I with such disdain 

That human speck creeping along the 

plain, 
And turn with such a careless scorn of 

men 
Back to the mountain's brow again, 
And feel more pleased that some small, 

fluttering thing 
Trusts me and hovers near on fearless 

wing, 
Than if the proudest man in all the land 
Had offered me in friendliness his hand ? 



However small the present creature 

man, — 
Ridiculous imitation of the gods, 
Weak plagiarism on some completer 

world, — 
Yet we can boast of that strong race to be. 
The savage broke the attraction which 

binds fast 
The fibres of the oak, and we to-day 



The Hermitage $j 

By cunning chemistry can force apart 
The elements of the air. That coming 

race 
Shall loose the bands by which the earth 

attracts ; 
A drop of occult tincture, a spring touched 
Shall outwit gravitation ; men shall float, 
Or lift the hills and set them where they 

will. 
The savage crossed the lake, and we the 

sea. 
That coming race shall have no bounds 

or bars, 
But, like the fledgeling eaglet, leave the 

nest, — 
Our earthly eyrie up among the stars, — 
And* freely soar, to tread the desolate 

moon, 
Or mingle with the neighbor folk of Mars. 
Yea, if the savage learned by sign and 

sound 
To bridge the chasm to his fellow's brain, 
Till now we flash our whispers round the 

globe, 



j8 The Hermitage 

That race shall signal over the abyss 

To those bright souls who throng the 

outer courts 
Of life, impatient who shall greet men 

first 
And solve the riddles that we die to know. 



'T is night : I sit alone among the hills. 

There is no sound, except the sleepless 
brook, 

Whose voice comes faintly from the 
depths below 

Through the thick darkness, or the som- 
bre pines 

That slumber, murmuring sometimes in 
their dreams. 

Hark! on a fitful gust there came the 
sound 

Of the tide rising yonder on the bay. 

It dies again : 't was like the rustling 
noise 

Of a great army mustering secretly. 



The Hermitage 39 

There rose an owl's cry, from the woods 

below, 
Like a lost spirit's. — Now all 's still 

again. — 
'T is almost fearful to sit here alone 
And feel the deathly silence and the 

dark. 
I will arise and shout, and hear at least 
My own voice answer. — Not an echo 

even ! 
I wish I had not uttered that wild cry ; 
It broke with such a shock upon the air, 
Whose leaden silence closed up after it, 
And seemed to clap together at my ears. 
The black depths of these muffled woods 

are thronged 
With shapes that wait some signal to 

swoop out, 
And swirl around and madden me with 

fear. 
I will go climb that bare and rocky height 
Into the clearer air. 



40 The Hermitage 

So, here I breathe ; 
That silent darkness smothered me. 

Away 
Across the bay, the city with its lights 
Twinkling against the horizon's dusky line, 
Looks a sea-dragon, crawled up on the 

shore, 
With rings of fire across his rounded 

back, 
And luminous claws spread out among 

the hills. 
Above, the glittering heavens. — Magnifi- 
cent ! 
Oh, if a man could be but as a star, 
Having his place appointed, here to rise, 
And there to set, unchanged by earthly 

change, 
Content if it can guide some wandering 

bark, 
Or be a beacon to some home-sick soul ! 

Those city-lights again : they draw my 
gaze 



The Hermitage 41 

As if some secret human sympathy 

Still held my heart down from the lonely 

heaven. 
A new-born constellation, setting there 
Below the Sickle's ruby-hilted curve, 
They gleam Not so ! No constella- 
tion they ; 
I mock the sad, strong stars that never 

fail 
In their eternal patience ; from below 
Comes that pale glare, like the faint, 

sulphurous flame 
Which plays above the ashes of a fire : 
So trembles the dull flicker of those 

lamps 
Over the burnt-out energies of man. 



11. 



A month since I last laid my pencil 
down, — 
An April, fairer than the Atlantic June, 
Whose calendar of perfect days was kept 



42 The Hermitage 

By daily blossoming of some new flower. 
The fields, whose carpets now were silken 

white, 
Next week were orange-velvet, next, sea- 
blue. 
It was as if some central fire of bloom, 
From which in other climes a random 

root 
Is now and then shot up, here had burst 

forth 
And overflowed the fields, and set the 

land 
Aflame with flowers. I watched them 

day by day, 
How at the dawn they wake, and open 

wide 
Their little petal-windows, how they turn 
Their slender necks to follow round the 

sun, 
And how the passion they express all day 
In burning color, steals forth with the 

dew 
All night in odor. 



The Hermitage 43 

I have wandered much 
These weeks, but everywhere a restless 

mind 
Has dogged me, like the shadow at my 

heels. 
Sometimes I watched the morning mist 

arise, 
Like an imprisoned Genie from the stream, 
And wished that death would come on me 

like dawn, 
Drawing the spirit, that white, vaporous 

mist, 
Up from this noisy, fretted stream of life, 
To fall where God will, in his bounteous 

showers. 
Sometimes I walked at sunset on the edge 
Of the steep gorge, and saw my shadow 

pace 
Along a shadow-wall across the abyss, 
And felt that we, with all our phantom 

deeds, 
Are but far-slanted shadows of some life 
That walks between our planet and its 

God. 



44 The Hermitage 

All the long nights — those memory- 
haunted nights, 

When sleepless conscience would not let 
me sleep, 

But stung, and stung, and pointed to the 
world 

Which like a coward I had left behind, 

I watched the heavens, where week by 
week the moon 

Slow^swelled its silver bud, blossomed full 
gold, 

And slowly faded. 



Laid the pencil down — 
Why not ? Are there not books enough ? 

Is man 
A sick child that must be amused by 

songs, 
Or be made sicker with their foolish noise ? 

Then illness came : I should have ar- 
gued, once, 



The Hermitage 45 

That the ill body gave me those ill 
thoughts ; 

But I have learned that spirit, though it be 

Subtile, and hard to trace, is mightier 

Than matter, and I know the poisoned 
mind 

Poisoned its shell. Three days of fever- 
fire 

Burned out my strength, leaving me 
scarcely power 

To reach the brook's side and my scanty 
food. 

What would I not have given to hear the 
voice 

Of some one who would raise my throb- 
bing head 

And shade the fevering sun, and cool my 
hand 

In her moist palms ! But I lay there, 
alone. 

Blessed be sickness, which cuts down our 
pride 

And bares our helplessness. I have had 
new thoughts. 



46 The Hermitage 

I think the fever burned away some lies 
Which clogged the truthful currents of 

the brain. 
Am I quite happy here? Have I the 

right, 
As wholly independent, to scorn men ? 
What do I owe them — self? Should I 

be I, 
Born in these hills ? A savage rather ! 

Food, 
The sailor-bread ? Yes, that took mill 

and men : 
Yet flesh and fowl are free ; but powder 

and gun — 
What human lives went to the making of 

them ? 
I am dependent as the villager 
Who lives by the white wagon's daily 

round. 
Yea, better feed upon the ox, to which 
The knife is mercy after slavery, 
Than kill the innocent birds, and trustful 

deer 



The Hermitage 4J 

Whose big blue eyes have almost human 

pain ; 
That 's murder ! 

I scorned books : to those same books 
I owe the power to scorn them. 

I despised 
Men: from themselves I drew the pure 

ideal 
By which to measure them. 

At woman's love 
I laughed : but to that love I owe 
The hunger for a more abiding love. 
Their nestlings in our hearts leave vacant 

there 
These hollow places, like a lark's round 

nest 
Left empty in the grass, and filled with 

flowers. 

What do I here alone ? 'T was not so 
strange, 
Weary of discords, that I chose to hear 
The one, clear, perfect note of solitude ; 



48 The Hermitage 

But now it plagues the ear, that one shrill 

note: 
Give me the chords back, even though 

some ring false. 



Unmarried to the steel, the flint is cold : 
Strike one to the other, and they wake in 
fire. 

A solitary fagot will not burn : 
Bring two, and cheerily the flame ascends. 
Alone, man is a lifeless stone ; or lies 
A charring ember, smouldering into ash. 



If the man riding yonder looks a speck, 
The town an ant-hill, that is but the 

trick 
Of our perspective : wisdom merely means 
Correction of the angles at the eye. 
I hold my hand up, so, before my face, — 
It blots ten miles of country, and a town. 



The Hermitage 4g 

This little lying lens, that twists the rays, 
So cheats the brain that My house, My 

affairs, 
My hunger, or My happiness, My ache, 
And My religion, fill immensity ! 
Yours merely dot the landscape casually. 
'T is well God does not measure a man's 

worth 
By the image on his neighbor's retina. 



I am alone : the birds care not for me, 
Except to sing a little farther off, 
With looks that say, " What does this fel- 
low here ? " 
The loud brook babbles only for the 

flowers : 
The mountain and the forest take me not 
Into their meditations ; I disturb 
Their silence, as a child that drags his toy 
Across a chapel's porch. The viewless 

ones 
Who flattered me to claim their company 



jo The Hermitage 

By gleams of thought they tossed to me 

for alms, 
About their grander matters turn, nor 

deign 
To notice me, unless it were to say — 
As we put off a troublesome child — 

" There, go ! 
Men are your fellows, go and mate with 

them ! " 



If I could find one soul that would not 
lie, 
I would go back, and we would arm our 

hands, 
And strike at every ugly weed that stands 
In God's wide garden of the world, and 
try, 
Obedient to the Gardener's commands, 
To set some smallest flowers before we 
die. 

One such I had found, — 
But she was bound, 



The Hermitage 5/ 

Fettered and led, bid for and sold, 
Chained to a stone by a ring of gold. 

In a stony sense the stone loved her, 

too : 
Between our places the river was broad, 
Should she tread on a broken heart to go 

through — 
Could she put a man's life in mid-stream 

to be trod, 
To come over dry-shod ? 



Shame ! that a man with hand and 
brain 
Should, like a love-lorn girl, complain, 
Rhyming his dainty woes anew, 
When there is honest work to do ! 

What work, what work? Is God not 
wise 
To rule the world He could devise ? 
Yet see thou, though the realm be His, 



52 The Hermitage 

He governs it by deputies. 

Enough to know of Chance and Luck, 

The stroke we choose to strike is struck ; 

The deed we slight will slighted be, 

In spite of all Necessity. 

The Parcse's web of good and ill 

They weave with human shuttles still, 

And fate is fate through man's free will. 



With sullen thoughts that smoulder 

hour by hour, 
In vague expectancy of help or hope 
Which still eludes my brain, waiting I sit 
Like a blind beggar at a palace-gate, 
Who hears the rustling past of silks, and 

airs 
Of costly odor mock him blowing by, 
And feels within a dull and aching wish 
That the proud wall would let some 

coping down 
To crush him dead, and let him have his 

rest. 



The Hermitage 53 

No help from men : they could not, if 

they would. 
And God ? He lets His world be wrung 

with pain. 
No help at all then ? Let life be in vain : 
To get no help is surely greatest gain ; 
To taunt the hunger down is sweetest 

food. 



O mocker, Memory ! From what float- 
ing cloud, 

Or from what witchery of the haunted 
wood, 

Or faintest perfumes, softly drifting 
through 

The lupines' lattice-bars of white and 
blue, 

Steals back upon my soul this weaker 
mood ? 

My heart is dreaming ; — in a shadowy 
room 

I breathe the vague scent of a jasmin- 
bloom 



54 The Hermitage 

That floats on waves of music, softer 
played, 

Till song and odor all the brain pervade ; 

Swiftly across my cheek there sweeps the 
thrill 

Of burning lips, — then all is hushed and 
still ; 

And round the vision in unearthly awe 

Deeps of enchanted starlight seem to 
draw, 

In which my soul sinks, falling noise- 
lessly, — 

As from a lone ship, far-off, in the night, 

Out of a child's hand slips a pebble white, 

Glimmering and fading down the awful 
sea. 



That night, which pushed me out of 

Paradise, 
When the last guest had taken his mask 

of smiles 
And gone, she wheeled a sofa from the 

light 



The Hermitage 55 

Where I sat touching the piano-keys, 
And begged me play her weariness away. 
I played all sweet and solemn airs I knew, 
And when, with music mesmerized, she 

slept, 
I made the deep chords tell her dreams 

my love. 
Once, when they grew too passionate, I 

saw 
The faint blush ripen in their glow, and 

chide, 
Even in dreams, the rash, tumultuous 

thought. 
Then when I made them say, " Sleep 

on, dream on, 
For now we are together ; when thou 

wak'st 
Forevermore we are alone — alone," 
She sighed in sleep, and waked not : then 

I rose, 
And softly stooped my head, and, half in 

awe, 
Half passion-rapt, I kissed her lips fare- 
well. 



56 The Hermitage 

Only the meek - mouthed blossoms 

kiss I now, 
Or the cold cheek that sometimes comes 

at night 
In haunted dreams, and brushes past my 

own. 

Ah, what hast thou to do with me, sweet 

song — 
Why hauntest thou and vexest so my 

dreams ? 
Have I not turned away from thee so 

long — 
So long, and yet the starry midnight 

seems 
Astir with tremulous music, as of old, — 
Forbidden memories opening, fold on 

fold? 

O ghost of Love, why, with thy rose-leaf 
lips, 
Dost thou still mock my sleep with 
kisses warm, 



The Hermitage 5J 

Torturing my dreams with touching finger- 
tips, 
That madden me to clasp thy phantom 
form ? 

Have I not earned, by all these tears, at 
last, 

The right to rest untroubled by that Past ? 



Unto thy patient heart, my mother 

Earth, 
I come, a weary child. 
I have no claim, save that thou gav'st me 

birth, 
And hast sustained me with thy nurture 

mild. 
I have stood up alone these many years ; 
Now let me come and lie upon my face, 
And spread my hands among the dewy 

grass, 
Till the slow wind's mesmeric touches pass 
Above my brain, and all its throbbing 

chase : 



5# The Hermitage 

Into thy bosom take these bitter tears, 
And let them seem unto the innocent 

flowers 
Only as dew, or heaven's gentle showers ; 
Till, quieted and hushed against thy 

breast, 
I can forget to weep, 
And sink at last to sleep, — 
Long sleep and rest. 



Her face ! 
It must have been her face, — 
No other one was ever half so fair, — 
No other head e'er bent with such meek 

grace 
Beneath that weight of beautiful blonde 

hair. 
In a carriage on the street of the town, 
Where I had strayed in walking from the 

bay, 
Just as the sun was going down, 
Shielding her sight from his latest ray, 
She sat, and scanned with eager eye 



The Hermitage 59 

The faces of the passers-by. 
Whom was she looking for ? Not me — 
Yet what wild purpose can it be 
That tempted her to this wild land ? 
— I marked that on her lifted hand 
The diamonds no longer shine 
Of the ring that meant, not mine — not 
mine ! 

Ah fool — fool — fool ! crawl back to 
thy den, 
Like a wounded beast as thou art, again ; 
Whosever she be, not thine — not thine ! 



I sat last night on yonder ridge of rocks 
To see the sun set over Tamelpais, 
Whose tented peak, suffused with rosy 

mist, 
Blended the colors of the sea and sky 
And made the mountain one great ame- 
thyst 
Hanging against the sunset. 



60 The Hermitage 

In the west 
There lay two clouds which parted com- 
pany, 
Floating like two soft-breasted swans, and 

sailed 
Farther and farther separate, till one 

stayed 
To make a mantle for the evening-star ; 
The other wept itself away in rain. 
A fancy seized me ; — if, in other worlds, 
That Spirit from afar should call to me, 
Across some starry chasm impassable, 
Weeping, •" Oh, hadst thou only come to 

me ! — 
I loved you so ! — I prayed each night 

that God 
Would send you to me ! Now, alas ! too 

late, 
Too late — farewell ! " and still again, 

" farewell ! " 
Like the pulsation of a silenced bell 
Whose sobs beat on within the brain. 



The Hermitage 61 

I rose, 
And smote my staff strongly against the 

ground, 
And set my face homeward, and set my 

heart 
Firm in a passionate purpose : there, in 

haste, 
With that one echo goading me to speed, 
" If it should be too late — if it should be 
Too late — too late ! " I took a pen and 

wrote : 

" Dear Soul, if I am mad to speak to 

thee, 
And this faint glimmer which I call a hope 
Be but the corpse-light on the grave of 

hope — 
If thou, O darling Star, art in the West 
To be my Evening-star, and watch my day 
Fade slowly into desolate twilight, burn 
This folly in the flames ; and scattered 

with 
Its ashes, let my madness be forgot. 



62 The Hermitage . 

But if not so, oh be my Morning-star, 
And crown my East with splendor : come 
to me ! " 



A stern, wild, broken place for a man to 

walk 
And muse on broken fortunes ; a rare 

place, — 
There in the Autumn weather, cool and 

still, 
With the warm sunshine clinging round 

the rocks 
Softly, in pity, like a woman's love, — 
To wait for some one who can never 

come — 
As a man there was waiting. Overhead 
A happy bird sang quietly to himself, 
Unconscious of such sombre thoughts 

below, 
To which the song was background : — 

"Yet how men 
Sometimes will struggle, writhe, and 
scream at death ! 



The Hermitage 63 

It were so easy now, in the mild air, 

To close the senses, slowly sleep, and 

die ; 
To cease to be the shaped and definite 

cloud, 
And melt away into the fathomless 

blue ; — 
Only to touch this crimson thread of life, 
Whose steady ripple pulses in my wrist, 
And watch the little current soak the 

grass, 
Till the haze came, then darkness, and 

then rest. 
Would God be angry if I stopped one life 
Among His myriads — such a worthless 

one ? 
If I should pray, I wonder would He send 
An angel down out of that great, white 

cloud, 
(He surely could spare one from praising 

Him,) 
To tell if there is any better way 
Than — Look ! Why, that is grand, 

now ! (Am I mad ? 



64 The Hermitage 

I did not think I should go mad !) 

That 's grand — 
One of the blessed spirits come like this 
To meet a poor, lean man among the 

rocks, 
And answer questions for him ? " 

There she stood, 
With blonde hair blowing back, as if the 

breeze 
Blew a light out of it, that ever played 
And hovered at her shoulders. Such 

blue eyes 
Mirrored the dreamy mountain dis- 
tances, — 
(Yet, are the angels' faces thin and wan 
Like that ; and do they have such 

mouths, so drawn, 
As if a sad song, some sad time, had died 
Upon the lips, and left its echo there ?) 

And the man rose, and stood with 
folded hands 



The Hermitage 65 

And head bent, and his downcast looks in 

awe 
Touching her garment's hem, that, when 

she spoke, 
Trembled a little where it met her feet. 

" I am come, because you called to me 

to come. 
What were all other voices when I heard 
The voice of my own soul's soul call to 

me? 
You knew I loved you — oh, you must 

have known ! 
Was it a noble thing to do, you think, 
To leave a lonely girl to die down there 
In the great empty world, and come up 

here 
To make a martyr's pillar of your pride ? 
There has been nobler work done, there 

in the world, 
Than you have done this year ! " 

Then cried the man : 



66 The Hermitage 

" O voice that I have prayed for — O sad 

voice, 
And woful eyes, spare me if I have 

sinned ! 
There was a little ring you used to 

wear " — 

" O strange, wild Fates, that balance 
bliss and woe 
On such poor straws ! It was a brother's 
gift." 

" You never told me " — 

" Did you ever ask ? " 

" You, too, were surely prouder then 
than now ! " 

" Dear, I am sadder now • the head 
must bend 
A little, when one 's weeping." 



The Hermitage 6j 

Then the man, — 
While half his mind, bewildered, at a 

flash 
Took in the wide, lone place, the singing 

bird, 
The sunshine streaming past them like a 

wind, 
And the broad tree that moved as though 

it breathed : 
" Oh, if 't is possible that in the world 
There lies some low, mean work for me 

to do, 
Let me go there alone : I am ashamed 
To wear life's crown when I flung down 

its sword. 
Crammed full of pride, and lust, and lit- 
tleness, 
O God, I am not worthy of thy gifts ! 
Let me find penance, till, years hence, 

perchance, 
Made pure by toil, and scourged with pain 

and prayer " — 



68 The Hermitage 

Then a voice answered through His 

creature's lips, — 
'" God asks no penance but a better life. 
He purifies by pain — He only ; 't is 
A remedy too dangerous for our 
Blind pharmacy. Lo ! we have tried that 

way, 
And borne what fruit, or blossoms even, 

save one 
Poor passion - flower ! Come, take thy 

happiness ; 
In happy hearts are all the sunbeams 

forged 
That brighten up our weatherbeaten 

world. 
Come back with me — Come ! for I love 

you — Come ! " 



If it was not a dream : perchance it 
was — 
Often it seems so, and I wonder when 
I shall awaken on the mountain-side, 



The Hermitage 69 

With a little bitter taste left in the mouth 
Of too much sleep, or too much happiness, 
And sigh, and wish that I might dream 
again. 




STARLIGHT. 

HEY think me daft, who nightly 
meet 
My face turned starward, while 
my feet 
Stumble along the unseen street ; 

But should man's thoughts have only room 
For Earth, his cradle and his tomb, 
Not for his Temple's grander gloom ? 

And must the prisoner all his days 
Learn but his dungeon's narrow ways 
And never through its grating gaze ? 

Then let me linger in your sight 

My only amaranths ! blossoming bright 

As over Eden's cloudless night. 



Starlight 7/ 

The same vast belt, and square, and 

crown, 
That on the Deluge glittered down, 
And lit the roofs of Bethlehem town ! 

Ye make me one with all my race, 
A victor over time and space, 
Till all the path of men I pace. 

Far-speeding backward in my brain 
We build the Pyramids again, 
And Babel rises from the plain ; 

And climbing upward on your beams 
I peer within the Patriarchs' dreams, 
Till the deep sky with angels teems. 

My Comforters ! — Yea, why not mine ? 
The power that kindled you doth shine, 
In man, a mastery divine ; 

That Love which throbs in every star, 
And quickens all the worlds afar, 
Beats warmer where his children are. 



j2 Starlight 

The shadow of the wings of Death 
Broods over us ; we feel his breath : 
" Resurgam " still the spirit saith. 

These tired feet, this weary brain, 
Blotted with many a mortal stain, 
May crumble earthward — not in vain. 

With swifter feet that shall not tire, 
Eyes that shall fail not at your fire, 
Nearer your splendors I aspire. 




A DEAD BIRD IN WINTER. 

HE cold, hard sky and hidden 
sun, 
The stiffened trees that shiver 
so, 
With bare twigs naked every one 

To these harsh winds that freeze the 
snow, — 

It was a bitter place to die, 

Poor birdie ! Was it easier, then, 

On such a world to shut thine eye, 
And sleep away from life, than when 

The apple-blossoms tint the air, 
And, twittering in the sunny trees, 

Thy fellow-songsters flit and pair, 

Breasting the warm, caressing breeze ? 



74 A Dead Bird in Winter 

Nay, it were easiest, I feel, 

Though 't were a brighter Earth to 
lose, 
To let the summer shadows steal 

About thee, bringing their repose ; 

When the noon hush was on the air, 
And on the flowers the warm sun 
shined, 

And Earth seemed all so sweet and fair, 
That He who made it must be kind. 

So I, too, could not bear to go 

From Life in this unfriendly clime, 

To lie beneath the crusted snow, 

When the dead grass stands stiff with 
rime ; 

But under those blue skies of home, 
Far easier were it to lie down, 

Where the perpetual violets bloom, 

And the rich moss grows never brown ; 



A Dead Bird in Winter J$ 

Where linnets never cease to build 

Their nests, in boughs that always wave 

To odorous airs, with blessing filled 
From nestled blossoms round my grave. 




SPRING TWILIGHT. 

INGING in the rain, robin ? 
Rippling out so fast 
All thy flute-like notes, as if 
This singing were thy last ! 



After sundown, too, robin ? 

Though the fields are dim, 
And the trees grow dark and still, 

Dripping from leaf and limb. 

'T is heart-broken music — 
That sweet, faltering strain, — 

Like a mingled memory, 
Half ecstasy, half pain. 

Surely thus to sing, robin, 
Thou must have in sight 



Spring Twilight 77 

Beautiful skies behind the shower, 
And dawn beyond the night. 

Would thy faith were mine, robin ! 

Then, though night were long, 
All its silent hours should melt 

Their sorrow into song. 




EVENING. 

[HE Sun is gone : those glorious 

chariot-wheels 

Have sunk their broadening 

spokes of flame, and left 

Thin rosy films wimpled across the West, 

Whose last faint tints melt slowly in the 

blue, 
As the last trembling cadence of a song 
Fades into silence sweeter than all sound. 

Now the first stars begin to tremble 

forth 
Like the first instruments of an orchestra 
Touched softly, one by one. — There in 

the East 
Kindles the glory of moonrise : how its 

waves i 



Evening 79 

Break in a surf of silver on the clouds ! — 
White, motionless clouds, like soft and 

snowy wings 
Which the great Earth spreads, sailing 

round the Sun. 

O silent stars ! that over ages past 
Have shone serenely as ye shine to-night, 
Unseal, unseal the secret that ye keep ! 
Is it not time to tell us why we live ? 
Through all these shadowy corridors of 

years, 
(Like some gray Priest, who through the 

Mysteries 
Led the blindfolded Neophyte in fear,) 
Time leads us blindly onward, till in 

wrath 
Tired Life would seize and throttle its 

stern guide, 
And force him tell us whither and how 

long. 
But Time gives back no answer — only 

points 



80 Evening 

With motionless finger to eternity, 
Which deepens over us, as that deep 

sky- 
Darkens above me : only its vestibule 
Glimmers with scattered stars ; and down 

the West 
A silent meteor slowly slides afar, 
As though, pacing the garden-walks of 

heaven, 
Some musing seraph had let fall a flower. 




EASTERN WINTER. 

g|OLD — cold — the very sun looks 
cold, 
With those thin rays of chilly 
gold 
Laid on that gap of bluish sky 
That glazes like a dying eye. 

The naked trees are shivering, 
Each cramped and bare branch quivering, 
Cutting the bleak wind into blades, 
Whose edge to brain and bone invades. 

That hard ground seems to ache, all day, 
Even for a sheet of snow, to lay 
Upon its icy feet and knees, 
Stretched stiffly there to freeze and freeze. 



82 Eastern Winter 

And yon shrunk mortal — what 's within 
That nipped and winter-shriveled skin ? 
The pinched face drawn in peevish lines, 
The voice that through his blue lips 
whines, — 

The frost has got within, you see, — 
Left but a selfish me and me: 
The heart is chilled, its nerves are numb, 
And love has long been frozen dumb. 

Ah, give me back the clime I know, 
Where all the year geraniums blow, 
And hyacinth-buds bloom white for snow ; 

Where hearts beat warm with life's de- 
light, 
Through radiant winter's sunshine bright, 
And summer's starry deeps of night ; 

Where man may let earth's beauty thaw 
The wintry creed which Calvin saw, 
That God is only Power and Law ; 



Eastern Winter 83 

And out of Nature's bible prove, 

That here below as there above 

Our Maker — Father — God — is Love. 




A PRAYER. 

GOD, our Father, if we had but 
truth ! 
y Lost truth — which thou per- 
chance 
Didst let man lose, lest all his wayward 
youth 
He waste in song and dance ; 
That he might gain, in searching, mightier 

powers 
For manlier use in those foreshadowed 
hours. 

If, blindly groping, he shall oft mistake, 

And follow twinkling motes 
Thinking them stars, and the one voice 
forsake 

Of Wisdom for the notes 



A Prayer 85 

Which mocking Beauty utters here and 

there, 
Thou surely wilt forgive him, and forbear ! 

Oh love us, for we love thee, Maker — 

God! 
And would creep near thy hand, 
And call thee " Father, Father," from the 

sod 
Where by our graves we stand, 
And pray to touch, fearless of scorn or 

blame, 
Thy garment's hem, which Truth and 

Good we name. 




THE POLAR SEA. 

T the North, far away, 
Rolls a great sea for aye, 
Silently, awfully. 

Round it on every hand 

Ice-towers majestic stand, 

Guarding this silent sea 

Grimly, invincibly. 

Never there man hath been, 

Who hath come back again, 

Telling to ears of men 

What is this sea within. 

Under the starlight, 

Rippling the moonlight, 

Drinking the sunlight, 

Desolate, never heard nor seen, 

Beating forever it hath been. 



The Polar Sea 8y 

From our life far away 
Roll the dark waves, for aye, 
Of an Eternity, 
Silently, awfully. 
Round it on every hand 
Death's icy barriers stand, 
Guarding this silent sea 
Grimly, invincibly. 
Never there man hath been 
Who could return again, 
Telling to mortal ken 
What is within the sea 
Of that Eternity. 

Terrible is our life — 

In its whole blood-written history 

Only a feverish strife ; 

In its beginning, a mystery — 

In its wild ending, an agony. 

Terrible is our death — 

Black-hanging cloud over Life's setting 

sun, 
Darkness of night when the daylight is 

done. 



88 The Polar Sea 

In the shadow of that cloud, 
Deep within that darkness' shroud, 
Rolls the ever-throbbing sea ; 
And we — all we — 
Are drifting rapidly 
And floating silently 
Into that unknown sea — 
Into Eternity. 




THE FUTURE. 

HAT may we take into the vast 
Forever ? 
That marble door 
Admits no fruit of all our long endeavor, 
No fame-wreathed crown we wore, 
No garnered lore. 

What can we bear beyond the unknown 
portal ? 

No gold, no gains 
Of all our toiling : in the life immortal 

No hoarded wealth remains, 

Nor gilds, nor stains. 

Naked from out that far abyss behind us 

We entered here : 
No word came with our coming, to re- 
mind us 



go The Future 

What wondrous world was near, 
No hope, no fear. 

Into the silent, starless Night before us, 

Naked we glide : 
No hand has mapped the constellations 
o'er us, 

No comrade at our side, 

No chart, no guide. 

Yet fearless toward that midnight, black 
and hollow, 
Our footsteps fare : 
The beckoning of a Father's hand we fol- 
low — 
His love alone is there, 
No curse, no care. 




THE NORTH WIND. 

LL night, beneath the flashing 
hosts of stars, 
The North poured forth the pas- 
sion of its soul 
In mighty longings for the tawny South, 
Sleeping afar among her orange-blooms. 
All night, through the deep canon's organ- 
pipes, 
Swept down the grand orchestral harmo- 
nies 
Tumultuous, till the hills' rock buttresses 
Trembled in unison. 

The sun has risen, 
But still the storming sea of air beats on, 
And o'er the broad green slopes a flood 
of light 



92 The North Wind 

Comes streaming through the heavens 

like a wind, 
Till every leaf and twig becomes a lyre 
And thrills with vibrant splendor. 

Down the bay 
The furrowed blue, save that 't is starred 

with foam, 
Is bare and empty as the sky of clouds ; 
For all the little sails, that yesterday 
Flocked past the islands, now have furled 

their wings, 
And huddle frightened at the wharves — 

just as, 
A moment since, a flock of twittering 

birds 
Whirled through the almond trees like 

scattered leaves, 
And hid beyond the hedge. 

How the old oaks 
Stand stiffly to it, and wrestle with the 
storm ! 



The North Wind 93 

While the tall eucalyptus' plumy tops 
Tumble and toss and stream with quiver- 
ing light. 
Hark ! when it lulls a moment at the ear, 
The fir-trees sing their sea-song : — now 

again 
The roar is all about us like a flood ; 
And like a flood the fierce light shines, 

and burns 
Away all distance, till the far blue ridge, 
That rims the ocean, rises close at hand, 
And high, Prometheus-like, great Tamal- 

pais 
Lifts proudly his grand front, and bears 

his scar, 
Heaven's scath of wrath, defiant like a 

god. 

I thank thee, glorious wind ! Thou bring- 

est me 
Something that breathes of mountain 

crags and pines, 
Yea, more — from the unsullied, farthest 

North, 



94 The North Wind 

Where crashing icebergs jar like thunder- 
shocks, 

And midnight splendors wave and fade 
and flame, 

Thou bring'st a keen, fierce joy. So wilt 
thou help 

The soul to rise in strength, as some great 
wave 

Leaps forth, and shouts, and lifts the 
ocean-foam, 

And rides exultant round the shining 
world. 




CALIFORNIA WINTER. 

HIS is not winter : where is the 

crisp air, 
And snow upon the roof, and 
frozen ponds, 
And the star-fire that tips the icicle ? 

Here blooms the late rose, pale and 

odorless ; 
And the vague fragrance in the garden 

walks 
Is but a doubtful dream of mignonette. 
In some smooth spot, under a sleeping 

oak 
That has not dreamed of such a thing as 

spring, 
The ground has stolen a kiss from the 

cool sun 



g6 California Winter 

And thrilled a little, and the tender grass 
Has sprung untimely, for these great' 

bright days, 
Staring upon it, will not let it live. 
The sky is blue, and 't is a goodly time, 
And the round, barren hillsides tempt the 

feet; 
But 't is not winter : such as seems to 

man 
What June is to the roses, sending floods 
Of life and color through the tingling 

veins. 

It is a land without a fireside. Far 
Is the old home, where, even this very 

night, 
Roars the great chimney with its glorious 

fire, 
And old friends look into each other's 

eyes 
Quietly, for each knows the other's trust. 

Heaven is not far away such winter 
nights : 



California Winter gy 

The big white stars are sparkling in the 
east, 

And glitter in the gaze of solemn eyes ; 

For many things have faded with the flow- 
ers, 

And many things their resurrection wait ; 

Earth like a sepulchre is sealed with 
frost, 

And Morn and Even beside the silent 
door 

Sit watching, and their soft and folded 
wings 

Are white with feathery snow. 

Yet even here 
We are not quite forgotten by the Hours, 
Could human eyes but see the beautiful 
Save through the glamour of a memory. 
Soon comes the strong south wind, and 

shouts aloud 
Its jubilant anthem. Soon the singing 

rain 
Comes from warm seas, and in its skyey 

tent 

t 



9<5 California Winter 

Enwraps the drowsy world. And when, 

some night, 
Its flowing folds invisibly withdraw, 
Lo ! the new life in all created things. 
The azure mountains and the ocean gates 
Against the lovely sky stand clean and 

clear 
As a new purpose in the wiser soul. 




THE LOVER'S SONG. 

END me thy fillet, Love ! 
I would no longer see ; 
Cover mine eyelids close awhile, 
And make me blind like thee. 

Then might I pass her sunny face, 

And know not it was fair ; 
Then might I hear her voice, nor guess 

Her starry eyes were there. 

Ah ! banished so from stars and sun — 

Why need it be my fate ? 
If only she might dream me good 

And wise, and be my mate ! 

Lend her thy fillet, Love ! 

Let her no longer see : 
If there is hope for me at all, 

She must be blind like thee. 




A TROPICAL MORNING AT SEA. 

jKY in its lucent splendor lifted 
Higher than cloud can be ; 
Air with no breath of earth to 
stain it, 
Pure on the perfect sea. 

Crests that touch and tilt each other, 

Jostling as they comb ; 
Delicate crash of tinkling water, 

Broken in pearling foam. 

Plashings — or is it the pinewood's whis- 
pers, 
Babble of brooks unseen, 
Laughter of winds when they find the 
blossoms, 
Brushing aside the green ? 



A Tropical Morning at Sea wr 

Waves that dip, and dash, and sparkle ; 

Foam-wreaths slipping by, 
Soft as a snow of broken roses 

Afloat over mirrored sky. 

Off to the East the steady sun-track 

Golden meshes fill — 
Webs of fire, that lace and tangle, 

Never a moment still. 

Liquid palms but clap together, 
Fountains, flower-like, grow — 

Limpid bells on stems of silver — 
Out of a slope of snow. 

Sea-depths, blue as the blue of violets — 

Blue as a summer sky, 
When you blink at its arch sprung over 

Where in the grass you lie. 

Dimly an orange bit of rainbow 
Burns where the low west clears, 

Broken in air, like a passionate promise 
Born of a moment's tears. 



102 A Tropical Morning at Sea 

Thinned to amber, rimmed with silver, 

Clouds in the distance dwell, 
Clouds that are cool, for all their color, 

Pure as a rose-lipped shell. 

Fleets of wool in the upper heavens 

Gossamer wings unfurl ; 
Sailing so high they seem but sleeping 

Over yon bar of pearl. 

What would the great world lose, I won- 
der — 

Would it be missed or no — 
If we stayed in the opal morning, 

Floating forever so ? 

Swung to sleep by the swaying water, 

Only to dream all day — 
Blow, salt wind from the north upstarting, 

Scatter such dreams away ! 




A FOOLISH WISH. 

HY need I seek some burden 
small to bear 
Before I go ? 
Will not a host of nobler souls be here, 

Heaven's will to do ? 
Of stronger hands, unfailing, unafraid ? 

silly soul ! what matters my small aid 

Before I go ! 

1 tried to find, that I might show to them, 

Before I go, 
The path of purer lives : the light was 
dim, — 

I do not know 
If I had found some footprints of the way ; 
It is too late their wandering feet to stay, 

Before I go. 



104 ^ Foolish Wish 

I would have sung the rest some song of 
cheer, 

Before I go ; 
But still the chords rang false ; some jar 
of fear 

Some jangling woe. 
And at the end I cannot weave one 

chord 
To float into their hearts my last warm 
word, 

Before I go. 

I would be satisfied if I might tell, 

Before I go, 
That one warm word, — how I have loved 
them well, 

Could they but know ! 
And would have gained for them some 

gleam of good ; 
Have sought it long; still seek, — if but 
I could ! 
Before I go. 



A Foolish Wish 105 

'Tis a child's longing, on the beach at 
play : 

" Before I go," 
He begs the beckoning mother, " Let me 
stay 

One shell to throw ! " 
'T is coming night ; the great sea climbs 

the shore, — 
" Ah, let me toss one little pebble more, 
Before I go ! " 



EVERY-DAY LIFE. 




HE marble-smith, at his morning 
task 
Merrily glasses the blue-veined 
stone, 
With stout hands circling smooth. You 
ask, 
" What will it be, when it is done ? " 

" A shaft for a young girl's grave." Both 
hands 
Go back with a will to their sinewy 
play; 
And he sings like a bird, as he swaying 
stands, 
A rollicking stave of Love and May. 




BEFORE SUNRISE IN WINTER. 

PURPLE cloud hangs half-way 
down ; 
Sky, yellow gold below ; 
The naked trees, beyond the town, 
Like masts against it show — 

Bare masts and spars of our earth-ship, 
With shining snow-sails furled ; 

And through the sea of space we slip, 
That flows all round the world. 




SIBYLLINE BARTERING. 

ATE, the gray Sibyl, with kind 
eyes above 
Closely locked lips, brought 
youth a merry crew 
Of proffered friends ; the price, self- slaying 
love. 
Proud youth repulsed them. She and 
they withdrew. 

Then she brought half the troop ; the cost, 
the same. 
My man's heart wavered : should I take 
the few, 
And pay the whole ? But while I went 
and came, 
Fate had decided. She and they with- 
drew. 



Sibylline Bartering 109 

Once more she came, with two. Now life's 
midday- 
Left fewer hours before me. Lonelier 
grew 
The house and heart. But should the late 
purse pay 
The earlier price ? And she and they 
withdrew. 

At last I saw Age his forerunners send. 
Then came the Sibyl, still with kindly 
eyes 
And close-locked lips, and offered me one 
friend, — 
Thee, my one darling ! With what 
tears and cries 

I claimed and claim thee ; ready now to 

pay 
The perfect love that leaves no self to 

slay ! 



NOTICES OF POEMS 

PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED BY 

CDtoarD IKotelanti &ilh 



If Edward Rowland Sill takes rank among the minor poets 
of the day, it is only because he died before his genius had 
ripened. The work that he did during his too brief career 
was of a quality to justify the high hopes entertained by his 
friends. There are no verses here which do not reveal the 
true poetic spirit joined to a reflective power of no common 
kind. Sill had, moreover, a mastery of his instrument which 
makes all he does satisfactory as artistic work is satisfying. 
There is nothing raw or crude about his verse. Sometimes 
his meaning seems unduly compressed, as by the force of that 
psychic influence which instinctively seeks expression rather 
in symbols than words. But there is always significance, and 
mostly deep significance, in his ideas, and sometimes a whole 
philosophy is summed in three or four stanzas. Rhyme could 
not contain this thinker, and he took refuge in rhythm. The 
influence of Matthew Arnold and Clough may be recognized 
here and there, and as much, or more, in the manner than in 
the matter. He was never tired of studying the moods of na- 
ture, and in the character of his observation there was a cer- 
tain Greek richness and sensuousness. Beauty of form and 
color moved him strongly. He responded to the gentler man- 
ifestations of the natural forces sensitively. His spirit was 
serious, questioning, anxious. In his death the age lost a 
poet of rare promise. — New York Tribune. 

There is good work in this little volume, and of a kind, too, 
which suggests not only the skill of the versifier, but a mind 
of unusual quality, touched to fine issues of thought, and re- 
garding life with a clear, lucid observation, free from decep- 
tion and illusion. It is a clear, rarefied atmosphere which the 
poet makes us breathe, soothing and invigorating His utter- 
ances are based upon a real foundation, and brave the test of 
a deep experience and analysis of life. He offers us few of 



the allurements of romanticism, but satisfies our sense with 
the solid and abiding joy of hard Duty performed — of Self 
conquered and renounced. — Philadelphia American. 

Poems remarkable for power, subtlety, and beauty. "The 
Venus of Milo," his most ambitious poem, in which his 
wealth of imagination and delicacy of diction are at their 
height, well deserves a permanent place in English literature. 
It has warmth, color, a force of epithet wholly Greek, and 
deep metaphysical insight. Although Mr. Sill is best known 
by this piece, the volume contains many poems, which, mak- 
ing due allowance for their scope and intent, are equally good. 
A certain completeness of finish and definiteness of purpose 
leaves nothing to be added to any of the writer's work. 
There is a pervading vein of tender mysticism never fantastic 
nor unintelligible. — Boston Beacon. 

He had a cultured and an inspiring mind, and his friends 
remember him with unusual tenderness of affection. I, who 
never had the pleasure of knowing him, can well understand 
from his work how high and noble was his nature, and since 
it is the pure in heart who shall see God, one fancies him 
gone on into the divine life, scarcely changed from the man to 
whom life was divine even here. 

Most of the noblest poems in this volume are, like the 
"Venus of Milo," with which it opens, too long for quoting; 
but the book is full of serene wisdom. — Louise Chandler 
Moulton, in the Boston Herald. 

In fancy, imagination, thought, and inspiration, their writer 
shows genuine poetic instinct. His verse is strong, flowing, 
and musical ; his diction crisp, terse, and dignified, and feli- 
city in expression is manifested with striking force in every 
poem here reprinted. — Boston Gazette. 



HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 

Boston and New York. 



